


scars souvenir

by e3echo



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Manipulation, Everybody Hurts, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Multi, Other, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, but hey you can always jump the weenies part, i know it should be clear by the explicit tag but, not gratuitous, often meaningful for character development, there’s sex alright, they are all older
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-03
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-13 06:22:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13564692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/e3echo/pseuds/e3echo
Summary: Kurapika found a way to release distress and still be highly responsible and professional. Although numb, he'd rather live that way instead of letting pain sink in again.Chrollo makes him think twice.orthe flowershop/tattoo parlor-au I needed but nobody would give me, with the usual dark twists.





	1. disappointment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title is from Impossible Year, by p!atd. It's on my [kurokura playlist ](https://open.spotify.com/user/albinpenguins/playlist/2EkvI3tiJUKNyCy2EjVGlm?si=9e1HpzixRO-I84JEfgNH7g) and the one song that has inspired me to plot this au. There's a lot to happen, yet, and I fear this will turn into some sort of slowburn. Well. It's tagged.
> 
> usual disclaimer, i don't own any of this, etc etc. i am deeply wounded by the lack of flowershop aus on this fandom.  
> No betas, this is not my mother language, any help is welcomed. The first chapter is rushed, very rushed, and I hated making it like this but there's no other way. The narrative's flow will follow mainly Kurapika's trail of thoughts, so it's somehow lacking at the beginning. Things will go on calmly later.  
> I love Kurapika, I love Chrollo, and neither are good people here.  
> They try, though.

 

* * *

 

 

  It was late in the evening, early February, and streetlights brushed ghosts over glass windows. A sigh and a quick breath, release, fingers entwined.

  To be devoted completely and to be fully adored held false symmetry. He always knew the latter, yet the first seemed like a dream or a tale one tells children. Small frame and lean limbs, his inhales hitched again, delight pooling on the insides of his face and down his hips. 

   Kurapika Kurta never really knew devotion besides to his own rage. As he allows and the man dismantles inside him, though, adoration is only one face of the whelm written over sweaty complexion. There’re no thoughts of if he looks like that too, because he knows he doesn’t. When large hands cup his cheeks and pull him for a kiss, he leans in. And when lips trail their way down his body, he takes in the view of plump lips helping him get to the edge of his own satisfaction.

   It is not bad, nor it is good.   
   It’s familiar, like everything Leorio does and means, from the lines of the back of his neck to the velvety feeling.

  
   He comes with calves buried under shoulder blades, Leorio‘s fingers pressing a soft spot inside as tongue does wonders, and it hits home in an unhurried matter.

   Not bad, not good, almost boring; he moans anyway.

   The kiss they share by the door tastes like salt and him, ego-maniacally, and he brushes his teeth later like he was the one to blow Satan himself.

 

   The next morning there are no texts. 

    That’s how it is with him; and Leorio knows it too well to call for a breakfast or a halfhearted joke, even when it goes against his nature. Alone in his bedroom, Kurapika takes the sheets off the bed, throwing them next to a pile of technically clean clothes that would be washed again today. His shirt and sweatpants are also clean, he doesn’t care. There’s this need to get rid of any traces of what happened immediately so he can feel adjusted, whole. Glad he didn’t have a fit when his friend messed the items over the counter: there wasn’t much time to fix it when hands slipped inside his underwear. Now, patiently, he stripped it blank and put everything back to their places.

   Making tea and drinking it, taking a shower, changing clothes. Merely six a.m. and he had things figured out for the rest of the day, like he enjoyed.

   The clock hits 7 and he decides to leave.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

   It’s been a while since he last walked those streets. Vacation was amazing, as it should be. He’d spent it whole pigging around at his apartment, leaving only to buy groceries and visit every park in town.

   21 days of books, yoga, plants and tea; all he needed to suit himself a satisfying break a few steps from reach.

   He also had watched countless episodes of incredible culinary tv shows which he couldn’t care less for. His friends should be blamed for having a heart too big and worrying excessively. Kurapika wasn’t about to start cooking just because of that, but they insisted.

   Still, turning the golden knob of the heavy door and being embraced by scent of faint alcohol and coffee, he had to admit he missed work. The absurd ceiling height of their place, large glass panels for windows and black frames, indoor and outdoor plants, warm and cold lights combined that were required only after twilight. Everything clear and clean, always somewhat organized.

   He adored it.

 

   A young woman approaches him, smile propped and bright as the hairband she wore on thick blond locks. A key was pressed onto his right palm.

    “This is yours.” The smirk grew wider. “The place is a mess, sorry.”

   Kurapika frowned in mock, watching her step away with her apologetic stare. He had to raise his voice just a bit, tilting small chin.

    “You're a disgrace, Lucy.”

   She raised a hand, middle finger up.

   His seat was far left, a corner by the last window. His things – although he’d left it open for anyone to borrow – were closed tight inside the black drawer by a silver lock.  
   Retrieving and organizing everything took barely minutes. He realized only an hour had passed, so there was time to revise his client list for the day (first one should show up around 9, a girl he never heard of). With a mental note to thank his colleagues when they arrived, the boy sat down; making small arrangements, getting fully distracted and missing anything Lucy or one of the others might have said.

   It was always like that. Kurapika would lose himself on his making, worried about doing a job that left both the client and himself satisfied. He was a perfectionist known for his refinement, so there weren’t excuses to making poor designs. One year left to have an English Literature degree on his hands, and he imagined he’d be working at some publishing company or at least a library. Somehow, he ended up tattooing people, and furthermore being _good_ at it.

   The idea cast sparkles when he had his first one, feeling needles tear his skin in gentle, methodical manner. Few years later, there were suddenly nine. Nine eyes, not always matched, tattooed on his body. They were often small: four the size of a penny, usually blackwork and graceful, thin lines. One other was ridiculously hidden, placed right behind the curve of his left ear. Three were delicate, each a different shade of red, following the line of his backbone between shoulder-blades.

   Tiny, one rested on the inside of his wrist.

   None would be seen unless he was naked. He wasn't ashamed of them, much the opposite, but his habit of only wearing clothes that fell and covered his figure like a sac had its perks.

  _Kurapika, fashion disaster._

   He’d since young been drawn to art in general. The idea of expressing oneself seemed wonderful, all the more if he agreed on the theory that art truly can smother resolution to one’s darkest traumas. To be fair, having gone through quite a bit himself, it felt reassuring to convert pain into something beautiful other than the wrath he groomed daily. He obviously loved literature, taking joy in going on about the intricate patterns of writing; but he wasn’t as good telling stories as he was reading and analyzing them.

   Drawing, however, was unexpectedly suited. Resulting of dedication and care, the whole dealing with symbolisms making him feel like there was a little control there, despite his soul being poured on an involuntary manner.

   Being able to chisel his designs into someone else’s skin was an overwhelming thought. Pain and memory went hand in hand, even in happy ones. He’d given in quite a thought before deciding to do it, and went on because he took an embarrassing pride on the metaphor. Besides, he would be hurting people, in a way. Getting paid for it. It fell in place with many other reasons he avoided paying too much attention, afraid they'd grow when given light.

   What were the odds?

   His thoughts drifted, lost in shapes and shades.

   At almost lunch-break, he finished a big piece he'd been on for four sessions. Hands and eyes tired from focus, massaging his own shoulders, the boy pondered whether should grab a coffee and if he’d do it alone or invite someone. That kid would show up sooner or later... perhaps he could just wait for him.

   Introduced by common friend Gon, Killua was all sharp eyes and thoughtful pauses. Fast, collected and seeming cold unless you really knew him; his hands were steady and he had great ideas. The teenage boy asked to be part of their studio the very day after his 18th birthday, and Kurapika gave him an intern position for about a month – a chance which he nailed. Now, they’d been working together for over a semester.  
 He was a nice boy from a weird, weird family. Kurapika never asked where his experience came from, or why he was so calm discussing certain subjects.

   They had an easy friendship and that was all he needed to know, for now.

   A low voice startled him.

    “Hi mom.”

    _Oh_. Speak of the devil.

    “Hello.” Kurapika turned around, getting up and leaning in for a small hug, so uncharacteristic of either of them. His nose brushed a sharp shoulder, Killua’s essence of iron and flowers just barely there. The boy was taller than him, despite being five years younger.  
That maybe explained his attitude.

    “So, out for lunch? There’s time.”

    “Never punctual, are you?”

    The boy raised one brow.

    “What are you saying? I’m early!”

    “Yeah, right.”

    He sighed, quietly waving his hand at Lucy to indicate they were about to leave. Outside, putting his sunglasses on, Kurapika took the lead of their walk. White covered most of their path, reflecting lights and hurting his eyes.

Killua did the same, round frame resting atop thin nose bridge, lips a small pout.

    “Where’ we going?”

    Their block was full of small stores and coffee shops, but they all somewhat tasted the same. A place perfect for entitled, softcore hipsters, like Gon called them. He never complained, as those softcore hipsters were about 70% of his monthly income, but there was some fun to it.

    Kurapika pondered, feeling winter sun start to burn his cheeks.

    “I thought... the old cafeteria?”

   There was a pause.

    “You wanna walk all the way there?”

    Side-glancing before muttering _l_ _azy ass_ , Kurapika gave him a small punch.

   

   The place was two blocks away, a distance which they covered in silence, wind caressing unprotected faces.

   It wasn't that he hated the cold. His skin was too delicate and grew dry, lips chapped, eyes red and throat sore. Something in the change of atmosphere, or the lack of colors. He was born and raised in a small community that lived in the woods. It only made sense that when life seemed to creep out of any plant whatsoever, it'd leave him empty too.

   Snow covered in salt melted by sidewalks, cold burned their lungs, and Kurapika just wanted to get to their destination as quickly as possible. He had planned to go out, to stand the weather for a while. Holding on to that thought, he kept his steps without minding to count them.

   He couldn’t be prepared to see his favorite place abandoned, though. Double-checking to be sure it wasn’t a mistake (of course it wasn’t, the place was recognizable and they’d been there so many times his feet could drag him by themselves), lip corners pursed downwards. That was so unfortunate. He’d been away for _three weeks_. When had that happened? Best coffee in town, served by an old gentleman that always had his nails painted green. Cringy to the bone, but so tasty...

   Kurapika was such a regular he’d call Netero by name, instead of any polite pronoun. The man knew exactly how he liked his coffee, how long would it take him to drink and that he always asked for a second cup. It seemed as if he’d lost an important part of his daily routine right then, and it wasn’t exactly a  _good_ feeling _._

   Like he could lose grasp on the whole world unless being surgical, careful.

    There was a sign that said “under new management”. He’d been frowning at it when Killua returned from a brief inspection of the door cracks.

   “I didn’t know.”

   Blue eyes met gray.

   “I see.”

   “It’s just a surprise, that’s all.”

   His expression seemed calm. Killua got track of his fidgeting fingers before they disappeared into jacket pockets.

   “Let’s find somewhere else, eh?”

   Kurapika stared at him and back to the building’s dirty entrance for a few seconds.

    “Sure.”

   They ended up at the next shop along their way back, paying for muddy water with so much sugar and so little caffeine they sat by the tables buried in offense. The younger updated Kurapika on the studio subjects, mentioning names he didn’t care memorizing and their weird stories. Upon being asked if he tried preparing a decent meal, the Kurta deadpanned a  _no_ and Killua simply acknowledged it, like that was expected.

   It felt reassuring, good at best, to have lighthearted conversations during work hours. By the time they went back, his shoulders weren’t so stiff anymore.  
 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

    “They'll sell plants.” Gon explained, taking the seat next to Killua when they met that night. Claiming to have never known better pizza, he appeared at their workplace just before their turns ended and convinced both to follow him.

   Kurapika had been distracted by the yellow lights hanging cascades on the ceiling, turning to face him slowly.

    “That’s… unexpected.”

   Brown eyes blinked twice, analyzing the reply before going on. Kurapika's tone was off, and he knew it had little to do with hunger.

   He watched as the other shifted in place.

    “Yeah. Seems like the old man decided to move in with his son. Something about being a grandpa? He was excited, I saw him few days before he left.”

    Kurapika agreed in a silent nod, hands on lap.

    “It’s a pity."

    Killua’s blue eyes were wide, face was twisted in theatrical disgust. "Pity? That's a sweet way to put it. We drank barf today. I'm still sick.”

   Gon elbowed him, laughter caged inside his wide smile.

    “Coffee wasn’t up to your refined tastes?”

    “Hey. It’s not his fault. He was _spoiled.”_   Kurapika added, leaning forward and making a small motion with his left hand to show the simplicity of the matter.

    The boy scoffed, but as Gon finally chuckled his expression eased. All they knew was Killua's family was  _loaded_. The kind of rich that bears old money and combines it with illegal tendencies. Although Killua left home, they were impressively loving ( _impressive_ as in unexpected and dubiously; according to Killua, in their own messed-up way). They were awful parents and even worse brothers.

   It started as a joke, and every time they had a chance to mess with him, they would, but only because Killua never looked bothered and it actually seemed to help him deal with it.

 They resembled children, kids trapped in adult bodies, Killua too thin and so pale he passed as nearly anemic, ridiculously frail to be that strong; and Gon’s long arms and legs too reckless to give away his commitment and careful gestures.   
   Kurapika realized that's what luck and comfort must feel like, being around and getting along so easily. He held tight to it somewhere inside his chest.

   “Anyway, well? You must be happy.”

   Gon smiled, warm, leaning into his own chair and turning to face him.

    “Yeah. I am, actually.”

    “You should go there when they open…” Kurapika let his words trail off as the waiter arrived with their pizza.

    It looked delicious, he realized, thanking the man and reaching for a slice.

    “I will”, Gon said, taking one too and shoving it on his mouth before realizing it was too hot and he’d made a terrible mistake.

   He looked like someone about to choke. Killua laughed, a sharp and crystaline sound, earning a glare.

   Swallowing in pain, Gon turned his red and teary eyes to Kurapika again. “You think it’s gonna work?”

   He shrugged. It wasn’t like he knew.

   Kurapika didn’t know what to say to those kind of expectant questions anyway.

   The boy had long left his home island, but carried with him the fond _interest over fauna and flora,_ his own words, wherever he went.

  On the first year of his Biology course, he had been looking for a part-time job somewhere quiet, and even if it wouldn’t add on his academic purposes, being surrounded by plants always seemed nice. He was exceedingly good at practical knowledge, had little patience to school and was too curious for his own safety; but he understood if he wanted to get the job of his dreams as a field researcher, he’d have to get a degree. Gon said he wouldn’t look for jobs that took too much of his time or energy, intending to focus on his graduation and reducing the four-years span to a three-years one by taking extra classes from advanced subjects in different turns.

   A flower shop wasn’t exactly a spa day, but dealing with something he loved and being useful for a change, well, that would be perfect.

   Kurapika still had no idea how to answer, though. He never had doubted his own high expectations, goals whenever set were simply a matter of being achieved. There was no room for questioning, which left him with little to no responses.

   Eyebrows high, he assented.

    “Hopefully?”

   A pause.

   It clearly wasn't enough; speaking made him regret just as the words left his lips.

   Gon wouldn't be annoyed, he  _never_ seemed to get annoyed at him, but seeing this was an already sensitive topic (was it? He couldn’t be sure), they risked going to downright sadness.

   Killua stared at him, eyebrows high, and gave the back by his side a pat, letting hand rise to shoulder and rest there while reaching out for his soda with the other one, taking a gulp.

  “Of course yes, Freeccs. Stop talking and eat.”

  Gon took the bait, he always did, but not before Kurapika glimpsed the shadow of a doubt getting a little darker.

   It would probably take some time for Gon to think of what'd been said. In a second, it seemed like his mind had gone blank, and then he was back again.

   They begun a heatless fight over the drink and Kurapika ate silently in relief, the picture of them as children under his wings growing stronger each second.

  Still, he just wanted to go home.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> weeeeell i have no excuses.  
> whew, it's been a lot since i last wrote anything so calm... so domestic.  
> have patience.  
> Chrollo will be showin up soon.


	2. patience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy here we go.

 

 

 

   His professional mailbox was still a mess. Kurapika wasn’t really good with emails, but they were easier than calls and felt more professional (also a lot less intimate) than texts.

   He’d been checking on his correspondence for the whole morning, taking the day off to resolve this. What he didn’t know, however, was how much things could accumulate; even though he left notes on his social media’s and personal website telling his agenda was full and he’d be taking another break from the world online for two weeks.

   Around half the emails, he left to make a cup of coffee. When he returned, a new one had just arrived.  

 

 

 

 

> **From:** cl13.0@gmail.com  
>  **To:** Kurapika Kurta  
>  **Subject:** Tattoo appointment  
>  1 March 2017
> 
> _Hello, Mr. Kurta,_
> 
> _My name is Kuroro._  
>  _I admire the way you convey feelings into shapes, and I wanted to begin this by telling you I think your work is amazing._  
>  _Your designs are brilliant._
> 
> _That said, I recently read your disclaimer and fear you specifically say you do not usually draw or tattoo arachnids, unless thoughtfully discussed._
> 
> _  
> I was wondering if and when could we arrange that._
> 
> _It would be a delight for me if you were the one to design my spider. I’ve been an enthusiast for a while, yet, living in another country can make turning your wishes into reality quite hard.  
>  _  
>  _Can we meet?_
> 
>  
> 
> _This is a request, should you refuse I will not insist any further._
> 
> _Thank you for your time._
> 
> _Looking forward to your answer,  
>  K. Lucilfer._

 

   Ridiculous.

   Kurapika stared at it before selecting “mark as unread”.

  
    Just- ridiculous. He tried searching for another word, but ended up with none that suited. That was an unexpected, _ridiculously_ long email for someone that just wanted an appointment.

   It made Kurapika tighten his lips, uncomfortable with a comical edge.

   For the unnecessary amount of flattery, he would just ignore the message.

   ... But there was an effort into reading his faq and asking for a chance. Doing their homework. Even if it should be common behavior, reading disclaimers, it wasn’t, and he was painfully aware of that.

   He loathed arachnids, spiders the highlight. Every single one of them was a reminder to him that the world can be home to awful, unfair and cringe-worthy creatures with far too many legs.

   Although the symbolic factor _was_ interesting, Kurapika admitted, he still hated everything it represented, and overall it was a mild trigger. It wasn’t arachnophobia; more like a rush of full disgust.

  
    A small voice in his head hummed along.

  
  _But the man is coming from another country, that is to be taken in consideration._  
  
    Thin hand ran through thinner hair, untangling knots. With a sigh, he went on to the next on his inbox list.

   Perhaps he was just that bored. 

 

 

* * *

 

  

   Fabric gathered around feet as he stumbled inside the bathroom. Leaving a trail of clothes, water swallowed him whole, the sinking feeling on his chest easing.  
    Winter was Killua’s favorite season, but he too had to mind the edges of his own body. Dry weather often made rashes appear along his arms, as if it wasn't complicated enough to deal with his albino skin, too sensitive to certain types of fabric.

   By now he knew exactly what to wear and how to hydrate and protect himself, but his first attempts were ridiculous. His parents would take him everywhere under an umbrella or even make sure butlers did the job until he was old enough to apply sunscreen and moisturizer by his own, but that was about it.

   No sibling of his ever had to worry about that. His mother would ramble and cry, which made it harder to listen to anything she asked.

   His father was barely ever there.

   Such a nice family.

   It was hard to tell seconds turning into hours, being embraced by warmth like that. One pale hand reached for white tiles, cold to the touch, and he stood like that for just a while before putting on shampoo.

   Skin over ribs and waistline still burned, soapy streams filling small sequences of horizontal, open lines. Last time he checked they were healing well, but again, he tried not to let his gaze linger.

   That might open a door he really hoped would stay shut.

   A voice could be heard from outside. It wasn’t happy.  

    _“Oi, Killua!”_

   “Almost done!” He shouted back, letting warmth run through white hair a little more. Gon was always so fast if he didn’t knew him he’d guess the boy didn’t shower at all.

_“We’ll be late! Thirty minutes?! Come ON!”_

   He cackled, rinsing shampoo remains away. Is thirty minutes a lot? Is it not? He didn’t really care, if he was to be honest. Dirty Gon, though, obviously cared a whole lot.

   His friend always smelled great though and looked quite clean, so maybe yeah, it was Killua who took too long. What concerned him more was that half an hour had passed and he didn’t even notice.

   Was he that tired?

   Dripping wet locks and inside three layers of clothes, he stormed out of the door to find Gon sat by the kitchen table, half eaten apple in hand.

   “You look like a stray dog.” 

   Killua gave him a quizzical look.

   “I thought your highness didn’t want us to be late?”

   As expected, Gon automatically joined the game. The other was already on his feet, smirk playing lips and seeming ready to take Killua by the neck and make it himself.

   “Well we already are, _are we not_?” He motioned to throw the fruit at him. “Go, dickhead.”

   “Rude!”

   _“Rush Killua!”_

   Half convinced and half not willing to see the threat become true, he turned back to the bathroom and picked the towel again, limbs warmer than before. Gon followed, laying down by his mess of a bed and staring at old stars stickers that long stopped glowing in the dark, adorning white ceiling. He wondered who lived there, and what kind of person they were. Who puts up those stickers at this day and age?  
   He realized he'd like them. 

  
   Walking closer, the tattooer took a spot at the nearest corner, tying his shoelaces.

   “Excited?”

   “Yes! I’m a little anxious, too, couldn’t sleep at all last night.” He was smiling, Killua knew without even turning around.

   “Are you meeting him after we hit Kurapika’s?”

   There was a pause, a heartbeat.

   “Yeah.” 

   Gon felt a gentle pressure over one leg, reassuring.

   Sometimes, when he said things that concerned his friends even the slightest, they made a fuss. Leorio was all about fusses, for example. The boy understood that well because, sometimes, he’d do the same.

   This friend however, whose hand reminded him of his constant presence, mostly only did them when he wasn’t worried at all. Worried Killua picked soft words and hid things to the last minute, elaborating miraculous ways out and cursing himself for every one that didn't work as planned.  
   Worried Killua made small gestures, like that one.

   Turning sideways, he bent forward, the length of his laid down body around long torso, dark hair brushing denim pants.  
   Killua gazed down at him.

   “What 'you doing?”

   “This, Killua, is a hug. I know it’s a foreign concept.”

   Thin lip corners twisted upwards, the same question being asked, slower this time.

   “Freecss, what are you doing?”

   Gon remained silent for a few seconds like that, letting his cheek lean into fabric while he stared back.

   “No idea. But you seemed anxious too, Killua, and I can’t have that now, can I?”

   Time was skinny, a pale thing. One they actually had not.

 

_What would he do if he knew?_

 

   Getting up, Killua adjusted his sweaters one more time before heading out.

   “C’mon, we’re late.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

   Loud kettle whistles wake Kurapika from his daydreaming.  
   Turning the heat off, he grabs three cups, pouring water over flowers and honey; improvising lids with old saucers.

   Outside, a hint of wind bathed streets. There’s still a lot of ice and in unexpectedly cold nights they witness snowstorms, but cold doesn’t creep into his bones anymore and the heating system he has installed finally makes some difference. It's a good day.

  Today, he managed to accomplish four snake flashes of his folder in a six-hours span. Along preparations and small-talk, that meant about an hour each. It was  _insane,_ given they were not exactly easy pieces, but they all turned impeccable. Kurapika could never make it  _easy._ They might look clean and seem simple, but the curves were always too tight and details poured from the hardest places.

   He had just returned from work when the kids called. Taking shoes off, attending to the soft ringtone, he sank into the couch.

   It’s a day before Leorio’s birthday. They have not talked properly since the last time the man and him shared a bed, because this time Leorio insisted on making it weird. He doesn’t know if he should message him before going to their meeting, if it should be a surprise or if he shouldn’t show up at all. In the end, he chose not to go. His friends, though, made him promise the opposite. It was Killua's day off, they planned on going downtown. Kurapika had time only to put his bucks back before meeting them downstairs, and they wouldn't take a no. With a weary expression and three beating threats, he agreed. 

   After Gon and Killua declared he couldn’t just miss dinner, they asked for help in finding a proper gift. A few stores later they settled for a briefcase, all black leather, that screamed the doctor’s name. They then took a cab, had croissants and finally,  _finally_ headed back to Kurapika’s place.  
   Both boys now waited for him by the table, kitchen filled with soft chamomile smell and the faintest gold light.

   Placing cups, Kurapika sat down.  
   “Killua, who was that guy at work yesterday? I got a familiar feeling but I can’t quite tell.”

   Taking his small plate off, the boy took a taste of the tea before facing him. He wore too many clothes for someone indoors, at least two different layers of black wool showing, but he didn't seem bothered.

   “That’s my brother.” Gon stood silent, Kurapika stared, both waiting for him to continue. “You probably think he’s familiar because we share some facial traits. He just wanted to check on me, see if I wasn’t about to die from starvation or something.”

   “You both have wide doe eyes, yes. Makes sense." There was a drop next to Gon’s left hand, that soon would be smudged, and Kurapika breathed in. He could clean that later. A cautious, small placed note of worry left older lips. "Was he satisfied?” 

   “I don’t think so, since I’m healthy and happy.” His nonchalant tone dropped a little in the end, but he shrugged. “It’s alright.”

   Gon blowed his tea before joining in, softly, like he was truly sorry.  
   “I wished I had seen him, Killua. I’m never there. Which one of them was he?”

   “One of the older ones, Illumi.”

   “Ah, long-haired with a scary stare?”

   “Yep. He just showed up like the weirdo he is.” The boy seemed as comfortable as ever, that meant none could tell at which extent the visitor might have affected him; if he ever did.

   “Such a shame I missed it. He’s the one who lives abroad, right?”

   “Don’t worry, he’s been everywhere lately. It’s some annoying, business stuff he’s attending, I guess. You might have already met him, at this point.”

   Gon had a line between arched eyebrows. The idea of being watched by an older and scary brother suddenly hit him with a chill on the spine. “Oi, that didn’t sound nice. Don’t tell me your brother is a creep?”

   Killua glared at him from behind his cup like he had said the most stupid thing he’d ever heard. “‘Course he is!”

   "What business stuff?" Gon pushed, mouth wide. "He sells drugs. Oh my god. He sells drugs to _children_? Worse, he befriends children, kidnaps them and makes them sell drugs for him?"

   "You really wished he did, don't you?" Making his best disgusted stare, Killua ran a hand through his own hair. "I guess he couldn't even if he wanted. Children hate him."

   "That's you avoiding my question."

   Kurapika watched as a smirk bloomed in Killua's face.

   "He doesn't sell drugs, but he does make people vanish."

   Gon was overwhelmed. "HE'S A PROFESSIONAL KILLER?"

   "You're jumping to conclusions."

   Gon leant in.

   "What then?"

   Killua pushed him away, smiling at Kurapika.

   "Wow- Fuck, this tea is amazing."

   "Oh." The host bit back a laugh. "Thank you."

   The boy nodded. "Is it home-made?"

   "You just saw me prepare it, didn't you?"

   "Why are you like this?"

   He grinned.

   "Like what?"

   "An ass. Also, ass, did you know? They put up their sign already, the shop will open in a few days."

   Kurapika blinked, confused. _Who?_

   Gon gave a wide smile as he dropped his curiosity, knowing it would lead nowhere now. "The shop! You know, where the cafeteria was. I'm trying to meet the owner."

   It begun with little considerations, fragments of a whole story no one would tell.

   Among the things discussed that day was closeness and values of bonds like friendship, an odd feeling. Dividing workspace, Killua and Kurapika had a lot to tell Gon, who always seemed eager to know; but beyond that they were pretty closed and would grab any matter they could discuss before pointing it back to themselves.

   It was good having him excited about his own projects, though.

   That clue was the older's turn to nod. "And how's that going?"

   "He told me to meet someone today."

   "Oh?"

   "Don't know him either. I'll let you know."

   Then, the blond wasn’t sure how exactly that happened but there they were, somewhere between the fifth and tenth cookie, and Gon brought up the subject.  
   Because he was Leorio’s friend, and it was his happy day.  
   He was supposed to be there. Like Killua, and him.  
   But he’d seen how things were going and he was worried; and it was his birthday, so close; so he asked kindly for him to not take any offense, and guarantee him they wouldn’t fight. Not tomorrow.

   "We know you guys aren't in a good place, but he likes you." 

   Kurapika was taken aback, but answers were short and gentle, and the boys seemed satisfied. He, on the other hand, wasn’t. His thoughts fluttered everywhere, from avoidance to decisions, nothing conclusive coming out of it.

   Killua said he took his friends for family. Said he could see Kurapika did that too, friends were supposed to care, and that there was a point on calling him mom. Gon added they were lucky to find someone like him, but that their friend was hot-tempered and always took things the wrong way. Upon noticing how numb and uncomfortable Kurta became about the cafeteria event, they’d made so many efforts to turn everything into pleasant experiences he even felt bad: that meant also putting their other friend aside and avoiding contact for a few days. Still, they never said things in such a straightforward manner.

   Knowing it was his acceptance that triggered everything, Kurapika wanted to say it was no bother, but he couldn’t really choose the words.

   Despite the weight on his chest during the afternoon, those that followed the request were heartwarming declarations Kurapika felt truly grateful for, although bittersweetly. He did see his friends like some sort of family. He knew he lost his cool with Leorio and knew whether situations led to yelling or sex, there would be tons of struggles – before, during and afterwards; and he could see why those weren’t exactly necessary for a birthday. If he couldn’t answer, that was because his eyes were dry from holding back the urge to blink as he stared into his piece of fake china, or because he didn’t know how.

   He’d always been one to stay silent. To accept things that seemed to be for the best. Why now it felt like some sort of disenchantment?

   Kurapika couldn’t ignore the truth he was using Leorio for a while, too long for his taste, and that they never quite clicked. They wouldn’t ever figure this out; he wasn’t even sure if he wanted it to happen. Even when he bought him gifts and sent texts asking how was his day, those were different things.  
   They had little in common. They couldn’t handle each other’s actions. They had been playing themselves so carefully it almost went unnoticed.  
   And Leorio made so many fucking efforts.  
   He also couldn’t ignore he didn’t care about consequences because he was sure wouldn’t end up hurting himself. The same couldn't be said about his friend.

   Again. Kurapika didn’t care-  
   Killua's voice echoed.  
    _Friends were supposed to care,_ _right?_

 

* * *

 

 

   This is how it went: in small steps and quiet apologies, Leorio had pulled him out of the restaurant, demanding answers. He never did that, and he was drunk; still, words were alien leaving him and Kurapika should be all but impressed.

  
_What was that?_

_How could you disappear and suddenly come back as if nothing changed?_

_What do you think of me?_

_How can you be so disrespectful?_

 

   Those were all questions he’d thought Leorio might make, but that couldn’t afford the weight of his drunken tone.

   It was a terrible omen the man thought he was in position to demand anything.

   "I hope you liked your gift, Leorio. I'm going to go now, happy birthday, okay?"

   The problem with those long stares were they usually meant nothing but how tired he was, and people often misunderstood them. Unfortunately, old habits die hard, and Kurapika had been holding him down on an iron gaze since he started blabbering to the point where now his reactions were mellow and low.

   It’s a shame there's no turning back on words. The boy would’ve tried to work it out, if there seemed to be a way; but besides “hands reaching neck” and “a kiss with a fist” clichés, he couldn’t see any path to redemption.

   Leorio looked exasperated, glasses in hand, tie undone.

   "I don't want you to go, I- can we talk?"

   "Is there anything you haven't said yet?"

   They met when Kurapika arrived in town, a backpack in one hand and an acceptance letter on the other. Leorio was the typical sophomore, quite laid-back but hardworking underneath, medical school never leaving enough room to enjoy life properly. Not like he wanted any of it - the only times he asked him out were to coffee-shops, parks and libraries; and although they fought a lot, he was a good guy in nice clothes and nice perfume, so when Leorio stopped on his tracks one day too close to his face and kissed him, it was easy to give in.

   That ocurred for the last four years. He admitted it was good not to be alone. He admitted he was afraid, at some level, of what could happen if he was trapped on his bad side without someone to brighten it up a bit. Not like he would do anything to avoid it, it was just some kind of weird recognition.

   But that never meant they had any sort of attachment beyond what friends do, and Kurapika made it pretty clear as years went by. They were in a platonic relationship with benefits at most, that being all he could give to the now graduated guy. 

   Leorio sighed, one hand reaching out and holding a slender arm. 

   "Don't leave like this."

   Kurapika ran a small tongue at his lips, trying to stop them from chapping, as he gathered strength not to punch his face.  
   This wasn't how he wanted it to end, bitter tips and sharp corners. Why was Leorio so dense?

   "It's alright. Now, please, let go."

   The man eased his grip and he took a step back, sadness a mist over his eyes.

   Kurapika turned around, walking up the street until he found a cab and took it home. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

   Later that night, after brushing the kitchen floor until exhausted, reheated tea in hurt hands, Kurapika opened his mailbox to check if there were any news. He was then reminded of a small request he forgot to think about.

   There was no harm in trying, he supposed.

   He already made so many concessions that day, why not one more?

   

 

 

 

 

 

> **From** : Kurapika Kurta  
>  **To:** cl13.0@gmail.com  
>  **Subject:** Re: Tattoo appointment  
>  3 March 2017
> 
> _Hello,_
> 
> _Thank you for your interest. We'd have to discuss the idea and I’d rather do it in person, so yes, we can meet.  
>  Depending on that, it can be done._  
>  _To fix an appointment, please call the number under my signature and leave your personal information with the secretary._  
>  _I have a full schedule this month. However, we can settle for a day in April, if you agree._
> 
> _Have a nice day,_
> 
> _K. Kurta_
> 
> _**~~K.Kurta~~**  
>  Blackwork and fineline tattoo.  
>  For Appointment Inquiries, BadBlood Studio Contact: +1 646-683-99xx_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ever wonder why kurapika has 9 tattoos?


End file.
